


Sunburn Aftercare

by trickybonmot



Series: Ficlets [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kink Meme, Pre-Slash, Sunburn, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 02:44:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2134158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickybonmot/pseuds/trickybonmot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the kink meme: </p><p>Fair skinned, freckled Mycroft is very prone to sunburns. One summer, his neck and shoulders get burned very badly while he's got a day off and it hurts a lot when he has to put the suit back on for work the next day. Good thing DI Lestrade notices and offers to help him put some 'after sun lotion' on.   Pre-slash, UST.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunburn Aftercare

**Author's Note:**

> My first Mystrade! What can I say? The prompt struck a chord.

“You’re looking hot today.”

Mycroft looks up from Greg Lestrade’s report, not sure what expression he should be wearing. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Sorry, it’s just this.” Greg gestures toward his face, wrinkling his nose sympathetically. “Got a bit of sun, did you?”

Mycroft lets out the breath he was holding. “Your powers of observation astound, as always.”

It isn’t as though Mycroft needs to be reminded of his sunburn. This morning’s been uncomfortable enough that he’s considering having “three hours in a tailored suit with the worst sunburn of your life” added to the approved list of enhanced interrogation techniques. It’s just as well Greg doesn’t pry as to where he got it; the image of the British Government wearing red swimming trunks and falling asleep beneath a rainbow umbrella by the Claremont Pier would undoubtedly damage his mystique. He went with his parents. His mother bought him a heart-shaped ice-lolly. He might almost blush with embarrassment even now, if his cheeks weren’t already as red as they could possibly get.

“Seems like everybody went to the beach this weekend,” Greg says. “In fact, my daughter has an even worse sunburn than you do.” 

“I doubt it,” Mycroft says. “Your daughter has olive skin.” 

“Not going to ask how you know that,” Greg says, without rancour. “You know…” He pauses, uncertain whether to continue. “I’ve actually picked up some stuff for her.”

“Stuff?” Mycroft asks.

“Yeah. Lotion stuff. Aloe vera. It’s in the car. I’ll get it.”

Before Mycroft can protest, Greg is out the door. He hears him excusing himself to the door security, and in a few minutes he’s back, carrying a tube of shocking-green gel. 

“That can’t be natural,” Mycroft says, wrinkling his nose.

“I didn’t say aloe vera was the first ingredient,” Greg says. “But beggars can’t be choosers. Now, shirt off.” He waves his hand vaguely in the direction of Mycroft’s attire.

“You can’t be serious.” 

“Suit yourself,” Greg says. “But you really don’t look comfortable. I swear it’ll help.”

Mycroft debates for a moment, keeping his face carefully neutral. On one hand, the idea is patently ridiculous and grossly undignified just in general. Also, the thought of revealing his gawky frame to Greg, in particular, gives him a queasy feeling. But on the other hand…his back is more or less on fire, and his Saville Row dress shirt feels like a cheese grater.

He presses the intercom button on his phone.

“Jessica?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Please see to it that I am not disturbed for the next fifteen minutes.”

“Yes sir.”

Flashing a triumphant grin, Greg crosses his arms and—just stands there. Mycroft suppresses a sigh. It would perhaps be a little strange to ask Greg not to watch him disrobe. He unbuttons his waistcoat without ceremony, then goes to hang it up.

“Hang on,” Greg says. “You have a clothes closet in your _office?_ ”

“Of course,” Mycroft says, selecting a padded a hanger. He undoes his tie and hangs it up as well, then takes out his cufflinks, all under Greg’s curious gaze. 

“Tell you what, mate, they couldn’t pay me enough,” Greg says.

Mycroft doesn’t have an answer for that, so he settles for a grimace. He struggles a bit with his top button, then gets the rest undone as quickly as he can, pulls out his shirttails, and hangs up the shirt, trying not to notice how the air-conditioned air makes his nipples contract, even as it gusts soothingly across his shoulders.

Greg hisses in sympathy when Mycroft somewhat apprehensively turns his back. “No, you were right, yours is worse. Ok. Brace yourself.”

He probably means it figuratively, but Mycroft, for no reason he could explain, actually does lean forward slightly to brace his hands on the sideboard near the closet. Ordinary offices don’t have sideboards either, he supposes, but he stops thinking and hisses out loud when the first freezing dollop of gel hits the back of his left shoulder. 

“All right?” Greg asks. 

“That is…really…cold.” Christ, he sounds a fool.

“Your powers of observation continue to astound,” Greg jokes. “Anyway, I think that’s rather the point.”

The initial freezing impact is followed by the swift, smooth sensation of Greg’s fingers spreading the cool gel over his heated skin, bringing sweet relief in their wake. It feels as though his over-tight skin is actually slackening, like cloth being taken off a loom.

“Feel good?” Greg asks. 

Mycroft can only grunt in reply. 

“Have you ever had somebody lick your sunburn?”

The breath sticks in Mycroft’s throat, and he has to swallow before he speaks. “What?” He feels as though he must have missed something. Greg chuckles.

“Sorry, I guess this is TMI. But I had this girlfriend once. We went to Barbados, got absolutely fried on the beach.” He switches his attention to Mycroft’s other shoulder, his hand cupping the bony point of it before sliding up the side of his neck. “We took a nap afterward, and when we woke up, she just started licking my shoulders. Honestly, it was unreal. Like the skin was super-sensitized. It hurt a bit, but it felt amazing. Like ordinary licking times ten. We just licked each other for about half an hour.”

Greg’s fingers feel exactly like that, like licking times ten. Mycroft bites his lower lip and wonders how he’s going to survive until this is over. Greg releases him for a moment to squeeze out more gel and then sets the tube on the sideboard so he can use both hands. He covers Mycroft’s mid back, then moves down to anoint his lower back and the exposed skin of his sides, above his belt. Mycroft is acutely aware of the extra flesh he’s carrying in that area, but reminds himself fiercely that it doesn’t matter anyway, because this is probably—definitely—the last time Greg is going to see him like this.

“I think that’s your back done. Sit down, I’ll do your face.”

Mycroft totters back to his chair, and Greg drags over one of the guest chairs to to face him. The thought vaguely occurs that it would be perfectly reasonable for him to just look in the mirror and put gel on his _own_ face, but at this point, it would seem, he’s committed. While he watches, Greg squeezes out a delicate amount of gel into one palm and then dips the tip of one finger into it.

“Hold still.”

Greg’s finger strokes gently across both cheekbones and down the bridge of his nose, across his brow and down both sides of his face. The tip of his chin. The tops of his ears. At some point he realizes he has forgotten to keep his face neutral, and the expression he’s making is unnameable. He watches Greg’s face, but Greg is concentrating and doesn’t make eye contact. 

“How did you not notice this was happening?” Greg asks.

“I fell asleep. The shade moved on.”

Greg gives a low chuckle. He distributes the last of the gel between both hands, and gives his palms a finishing swipe inward along the lightly toasted stripe of Mycroft’s collarbones. He ends with his fingers in Mycroft’s hair at the nape of his neck, which he— _god_ —tugs, gently, giving Mycroft a little shake.

“Now _don’t_ do it again. Her Majesty’s Government can’t afford skin cancer.”

“I don’t plan to make a habit of it,” Mycroft says. His voice is perfectly even. Good.

He expects Greg to release him, but he doesn’t, not right away. Greg is looking at him in the oddest way. He opens his mouth as though to say something, when the intercom on Mycroft’s desk gives a discreet chime.

Mycroft tugs away at the same moment Greg releases him, and they talk over each other.

“I should—“

“That’ll be—“

They stop. They clear their throats.

“Guess I’ll be going,” Greg says. 

“Thank you for your assistance.”

“Any time. I’ll, uh, see you next week. With my report.”

“Indeed. Good day, Greg.”

“You too.”

Greg sees himself out. Mycroft stands, takes a few deep breaths, and starts to put his clothes on. He has to admit he feels much better. And Greg will be back in a week.


End file.
